


Red

by insertcleveruserhere



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: 40s, 40s AU, Currently SFW, Detective AU, F/M, Headaches, Rating Might Bump Up if I Throw In Smut, Romance, Romance Heavy, Swearing, War, Will Probably Change, Working title, migraines, tw swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-12-30 14:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18316823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insertcleveruserhere/pseuds/insertcleveruserhere
Summary: She looks like sin in the red dress, lips painted red to match, and for the first time since he'd met her, she looked genuinely happy. She hooks her arm around his, drawing him down for a kiss.He was in trouble, but he sure as hell wasn't complaining.***I posted this on Tumblr, but I'm much more comfortable on A03, especially with multi-chapter works, so I'll be posting it on both mediums. Thanks a bunch for reading!





	1. If I Didn't Care

The neon sign lights up the alleyway, bringing light to the otherwise nondescript gap between buildings.

The neon lights were a pretty purple, a tiny speck aiding in lighting Vesuvia, and curled to read “Private Detective”, and just below it a separate sign advertising, “Tarot Readings” in a dark blue. Overall, it was pretty shady, and no one should want to go there willingly, as private detectives were a dime a dozen, but private detectives who also read tarot were as rare as they were dubious.

The office was tucked on the first floor of an apartment complex and alongside a building that doubled as a laundromat and a Chinese restaurant, and could be completely overlooked if you weren’t looking for it. Their office itself consisted solely of a pair of desks, each completed with a desk chair, an abundance of filing cabinets, too many ashtrays, a long stick for the resident snake to slither on, and a bohemian tapestry separating the detectives’ office from where tarot was read. Overall, it was much more inviting than initially anticipated, regardless of how decrepit the building itself was.

The Apprentice was tired - of the office, of Asra, of the damn headaches. Balancing her bag, a box of Asra’s favorite doughnuts, her keys, and a handful of files, she manages to pry the lid off her meds, downing a few pills without bothering to complain about not having any water to make the trip easier. She sighs, pausing only to look at the tacky neon lights, hoping that Asra might have lured even a singular customer in. The bitter taste in her mouth is only partly caused by the pills.

She manages to open the door with her free hand and catch it with her foot, all while balancing the monument of stuff in her hands. She sighs yet again when she sees Asra asleep behind his desk, head in his arms. She tosses her keys on his desk, effectively waking him with a start.

“I’m assuming no customers?” She scratches the back of Faust’s head, and the snake yawns, keening into her touch.

He runs a hand through his floofy bedhead, smiling fondly at his friend and coworker, “You’d assume correctly.”

She huffs out a laugh, though she was definitely far from amused by the fact that they were nearly financially destitute. She sets the box of doughnuts on his desk, patting it twice with her files, “A thank you would be appreciated.”

Asra gives a mock bow, “Many thanks, my dearest colleague.” He yawns, long and wide and she wonders when the last time he actually laid down to sleep was.

“Go get some sleep, Asra.” She sets her things down on her desk, her files teetering until they sprawl across the surface, only adding to the chaos. She just tosses her bag on top of it all, holding back a scream when it opens and the files inside flying.

Asra looks a little sympathetic, at least, “Can’t.” He glances at his wristwatch, and then sets into high gear, flitting around the room like a hummingbird, “I’ve a train to catch in twenty minutes.”

She furrows her brow, effectively confused as hell, “A train? Where are you going?”

“Nevivon.” He lets Faust slither around his shoulders, and then pulls his overcoat on, “I’ve some business to handle there.”

She only grows more confused, “Business? Business that puts money in our pockets or business that consists of you leaving me here for weeks on end?”

Again, he only looks a little sympathetic, and she’s unsure if that’s because he was hiding how bad he felt or if he was trying to emulate sympathy, “I’ll be back within the week.” She’d heard that promise before.

She sighs - realizing then that she’d been doing that a lot lately - and faces him, “You could have least told me sooner.”

Asra puts on that stupid smirk and even stupider hat, “Next time.”

And with that, he disappears onto the streets of Vesuvia, leaving her with a radio and closed cases.

She flicks the radio on, scanning until music came through and not those shows Asra listened to, and cursed under her breath when she realized that Asra took all the damn doughnuts.

If I didn’t care more than words can say

If I didn’t care, would I feel this way?

If this isn’t love then why do I thrill?

And what makes my head go ‘round and 'round

While my heart stands still?

She sighs, all but throwing herself in Asra’s chair and burying her face in her arms, willing her headache to cease and desist and for her wallet to overflow with riches.

It was an unlikely outcome, but certainly welcome at this point in her life.

She knows that she ought to get back to work, especially now that Asra and Faust have left for an indiscernible amount of time, but her head aches and she’s hungry as hell, and if Asra didn’t have to do any work, neither did she.

She wished that were true. She wished there was no work to be done and everything was easy, but, sadly, that wasn’t the case.

She yawns, and sets to gather the papers that had gone flying moments before, wishing she could just get lost in the music.

If I didn’t care, would it be the same?

Would my every prayer begin and end with just your name?

And would I be sure that this is love beyond compare?

Would all this be true if I didn’t care for you?

She hums along with the popular tune, pretending like she remembered all the words and though she doesn’t get lost in the music, it’s a pleasant distraction from just how dire her situation was. All the papers find their place back in her bag, and the radio crackles a moment. She’s terrified she’s about to lose the music, but before she can throw herself across the room to fix it, the problem gone.

She’d like to say that a cold case catches her eye, or maybe she found some cash tucked away in a pocket of her bag that she just happened to forget, but Lady Luck hadn’t blessed her that much, and thus, she was stuck in her dead end job, in a hole in the wall, with no money, no doughnuts, and little more than the clothes on her back and a radio that was on its last legs.

Things had been different before the war - hell, the war had been their peak income. People had been desperate to find their missing loved ones, or to know what their future held in store.

She gathers the last of the files, tossing the majority of them back in her bag and thumbs through a few pages of things that were most certainly not relevant to her work.

Nothing was relevant to her work anymore, and she scoffs, setting all the paper down in another undignified heap. She retrieves the newspaper from her bag, and begins her search for the wanted section. Regardless of how much she liked working with Asra, there was no possible way they could keep this up.

She circles a receptionist position, and sighs once more at the overwhelming amount of “male” positions, knowing full well there was no way she’d stand a chance against even the most incompetent man on the face of the planet.

She wanted to scream, or cry, or maybe just fall asleep for a little while, but all three seemed to be escaping her as of late.

If I didn’t care, honey child, more than words can say

If I didn’t care, baby, would I feel this way?

Darlin’, if this isn’t love, then why do I thrill so much?

And what is it that makes my head go 'round and 'round

While my heart just stands still so much?

Someone knocks on the door, two little raps that she barely heard, and she’s almost excited for the first time in a long, long while. But, the more rational side of her takes its turn before she can read too far into it.

It was probably just Asra, holding too many things at once, and only just forgetting something he needed for his big trip. She wished it were a customer, someone who might be willing to give her enough money to buy food this month, but she was too much of a realist to expect it.

She sets the paper down and pulls the door open without bothering to greet Asra, and she’s more surprised than she ought to be to find that the person on the other side of the door was not, in fact, her boss, but rather a close friend of his.

“Muriel.” She says simply, obviously put off by the fact he was there at all. Her eyes rake over him, and she knows she ought to move out of the way so he could come in, but the initial shock of his visit still hadn’t worn off. “What’re you doing here?”

He furrows his brow at that, hands tucked in his front pockets - she notes just how massive his hands were, considering - and she worries she’s said the wrong thing already, “Is Asra in?”

She finds her train of thought, shaking her head, “No, sorry, you just missed him.” A beat of awkward silence passes, “He’d headed to Nevivon on a…surprise trip. I don’t know how long.” Something resembling pity crosses Muriel’s features, for only a moment, “Would you like to come in?”

He glances over his shoulder, and she worries that someone might be following him…and then she remembers that he’s nearly seven feet tall and could crush her head like a grape if he so pleased. No one could truly be stupid enough to mess with him.

“Come in.” She presses, stepping aside, “I’ll put on a pot of coffee.”

He purses his lips but doesn’t protest, bending down so he could fit inside the doorway. He stands awkwardly against the filing cabinets, clearly trying to make himself as small as possible.

“So…” She sets to work, trying to fill the silence a little less awkwardly than the radio was doing, “Why’re you looking for Asra?”

She knew Muriel, though certainly not as well as Asra knew him. They’d always been civil, but their conversations consisted solely of awkward pleasantries. He’d come all this way, though, and she was determined to help him if she could.

He ignores her question, though, and asks, “Do you know why he’s going to Nevivon?”

She shakes her head, leaning against her desk as the coffee brews, “He mentioned something about being back within the week, but you know how he is.” A week long trip could turn into two weeks, and two would turn into four, and before she knew it, she was left alone for two months.

Muriel huffs, crossing his arms over his chest, “Dammit.”

She runs a hand over her scalp, mirroring his sentiments, and decides to make small talk rather than pushing him any further, “Are you still working at the Rowdy Raven?”

He nods after a moment’s hesitation, obviously put off by the fact she was trying to talk to him, “Yeah.” She turns back around to pour their coffee.

“How do you like your coffee?” She asks, pouring her own cup first.

He hesitates just a moment too long, before he finally answers, “Oh, uh…black’s fine.”

She hands him his mug, and he thanks her with a short nod. She sits on Asra’s desk, picking up a figurine she knocked over, “So…how have things been? How are you?”

He eyes her suspiciously, taking a sip of his coffee in spite of the fact it certainly wasn’t at a consumable temperature yet. “Fine.”

She arches a playful brow, blowing into her mug, “We’re trapped in social etiquette, so unless you’re comfortable with this uncomfortable chatter, I suggest we ask one another a few more questions.” His eyes dart to the door like he’s considering bolting, so she’s quick to say, “You don’t have to if you don’t want.”

He looks confused and his face is marred by a scowl, but asks, “What sort of things?”

She genuinely seems to ponder what question to ask him before settling on, “What’s your favorite color?”

“What.” He asks, in spite of the fact it definitely didn’t sound like a question.

The right corner of her mouth quirks up in a smile, “Your favorite color. What is it?” She traces a finger around the rim of her mug.

Almost immediately, he answers, “I don’t…have one.” He purses his lips, swirling his mug.

She nearly chokes on the scalding coffee, “What? Everyone has a favorite color!”

He rolls his eyes, “Well I don’t!” He takes a large gulp of his coffee, trying to hide how embarrassed he was.

They sit in tense silence for a moment, the air between them palpable as they drink their coffee before he looks back at her, chewing on his bottom lip. He swallows and says, “Green is ok.”

She smiles, bright and genuine, in spite of the headache pounding behind her eyes and around the back of her head, “Green is a good color.”

“Whatever.” He’s blushing a thousand shades of red, the blush spreading from his cheeks to his neck. “…What’s yours?”

Whether or not she genuinely cared about the color in that moment, she knew that the pretty shade of red running across his face was enough to convince her to say, “Red.”


	2. The Countess of Vesuvia

Red isn’t such a bad color. 

Muriel doesn’t know how to not start associating the color with her after she said that, and he can feel his skin heating like a furnace. He’d finished his coffee back when she’d claimed that everyone had a favorite color, and bullied him into telling her what his was, and was standing there, taking a drink from the mug every so often just so he wouldn’t have to go just yet. 

He hated Asra for leaving her alone in this dumpy hole in the wall, and he hated him even more for asking him to watch over her while he left, like he was a sitter and she was some incompetent little child who needed him to wipe her ass.

“Red’s nice.” He compliments, bringing his mug back to his lips, in spite of the fact it was empty. He feels idiotic, but he didn’t know how to tell her that he finished his cup. Should he ask for more? She was still sipping on her first, but she was kind enough that he doubted she would even remotely judge him for wanting another cup of coffee so soon. 

She smiles, crossing her legs at the knee and swirling her cup again, “So, um...Asra told me that the two of you grew up together.”

Before he can stop himself, he’s asking, “What else has he told you?”

A flicker of surprise passes her face, but she answers, “Oh...he told me that you two were raised together at, uh, St. Margaret’s, and...that you work at the Raven, and...oh, he, uh,” She smiles, “he told me the story about the time the two of you stole those cigarettes from the nun, um…” She snaps her fingers, trying to remember her name, “Sister, uh…”

“Lilin.” Muriel finishes, smiling fondly at the memory and hiding it behind the empty mug, pretending to take another drink.

She laughs and finishes it with a smile that just barely reaches her eyes, “Yes! Sister Lilin. The one with the ruler.”

“Asra was typically the one on the receiving end.” Muriel almost asks for another cup of coffee then, but she laughs at him - his joke? - and smiles into her still half full mug. 

“I can definitely see that.” She must finally notice him standing there, holding the empty much-too-small-for-his-hand mug, “Do you want more?”

Yes, he did. “No.” And then, as an afterthought, “Thanks.” He mentally kicks himself. She takes the mug from him, her smile gradually diminishing as she went to put their mugs in the sink he knew was behind the tapestry, and wonders why he couldn’t just tell her that he wanted more coffee. 

“So, how long have you been working at the Rowdy Raven, Muriel?” She calls from the back, and he can faintly hear the water running.

“About three years, now.”

She shuts the water off and continues, “I have a friend who frequents there. You might actually know him.”

It takes everything in Muriel’s being not to press his fingers to the bridge of his nose, “Dr. Devorak?”

Her head pops out from behind the tapestry, the rest of her following soon after, “I take it you don’t particularly like him, then?”

“I’ve had to throw him out more often than not.”

She laughs, loud and genuine, “He helped me a lot, after the accident.” She smiles solemnly, “You know about that, right?”

He knew the main gist of it. She’d been involved in a car accident, head trauma, something to do with her head. Asra came to him more often than not, crying about how hard it was staying with someone he loved when they didn’t love him.

Right.

Instead, he lies to keep the conversation flowing, and says, “No, not really.”

She looks a little hurt, like it hurts that Asra wouldn’t tell him about her, but she tells him, “I was involved in a car accident a couple years back, and I, um,” She laughs a little bit, “I forgot who I was, and Asra and Julian made sure I, you know, didn’t die. Asra was the only person who would take me in, and he taught me how to do...everything.”

He didn’t mean to steer the conversation to such a dark place, so he flounders for a moment, unsure of what he was supposed to do with his hands, “How’ve your cases been?” He can vaguely hear a soft laugh. He knew things were bad, but he didn’t think they were that bad. 

“They’ve run cold.” She says, standing at her desk and chuckling at her own joke, “No, we’re um...we’re not in the best spot right now.” She purses her lips, offering no further explanation. 

Muriel doesn’t know what to say to that. He assumed that if things really had gotten that bad, Asra would’ve trusted him enough to tell him. Instead, he runs off and leaves her alone to deal with their misfortune. It was hard not to be angry at. 

She clears her throat, “Do you dance, Muriel?” 

His eyes widen reflexively, and then, for some reason, he’s blushing, “...I don’t know how.” Then, after a moment’s pause, “Do you?”

“A little.” He can’t tell if she’s just being humble or if she’s telling the truth, “I haven’t been for some time, though.”

He figures he might as well bite the bullet now, “Do you want to come with me to work tonight? They, uh...they dance there.”

She arches a brow, “Why?”

Asra asked me to, he thinks, and feels guilty for not telling her the truth. But, instead, he tells her, “So you can dance.”

“Only if you let me teach you?”

He agrees. Of course he does. Asra looked up at him with those stupid dog eyes that got him out of trouble back at the orphanage and asked him to take care of her, because her migraines had been getting worse and she was stressed, and he was scared she might not do so well alone. 

Muriel thought he either ought to let her leave or not leave her alone for so long if he was really so worried about her, but it wasn’t his business.

She’s wearing a red dress, because of course. It’s a pencil dress with sleeves that wrapped around her shoulders, and managed to make herself look like a pinup rather than a tired detective in less than a half hour. 

“How do I look?” She asks, a bright smile on her face, and it startles him how well she fakes looking happy. 

He doesn’t have a chance to tell her how pretty she looks, as they’re cut off by feverish knocking. Regardless, he doubted he would honestly be brave enough to tell her, so he’s thankful for the distraction. 

She looks confused, which is, again, enough of a reason to make him wonder how long they’ve been going out of business, and moves to open the door without second thought. 

Whoever Muriel was expecting on the other side - Asra, the doctor, a customer, some lost, drunken vagabond - he definitely wasn’t expecting Nadia Satrinava. Wife of the late Lucio “The Count” Morgason, socialite, and probably the scariest woman in Vesuvia, was standing in the doorframe, wrapped in a shawl, rubbing her gloved hands together.  
Lucio himself had been a...mystery. A gangster, if the term ever applied to anyone, who had a knack for showmanship, and made deals with some of the most influential people in town to ensure he wouldn’t be caught by the police. And then, like the peacock he was, his legacy went up in flames like the Hotel Plaza he’d booked in for his birthday. 

Police said it was murder. The people heaved a collective sigh of relief and were thankful that he was gone. 

Muriel can’t see her face, but he assumes that she looks just as shell-shocked as he feels. 

“How can I help you?” She asks, stepping in the doorframe. Muriel’s standing behind her in an instant, drawing a startled look from Nadia, though her attention remains on her.

She answers, clutching her hands together still, Prakran accent thick, “You must be Asra.”

Muriel watches as her shoulders slump, “I’m sorry. He’s away on business, but I’m his partner. Is there anything I can do to help you?”

The Countess, as she was so lovingly nicknamed by those who knew of her, “You...you’re a detective?”

“I…” She throws a look over her shoulder, surprised to see Muriel right behind her, “I am, though we’re not open at the moment.”

“Please.” The Countess insists, placing a hand on the doorframe, “It’s urgent.”

She looks over her shoulder again, wetting her lips, “I...um...I suppose that I could give a check on my plans for tonight?” She looks to Muriel for approval, and when he stands there like a bum, she invites the Countess to, “Please, come in.”

“I don’t suppose it’s necessary to apologize for intruding by now, but I want to anyway.” She pulls one glove off, finger by finger, “I won’t be long...and I…” She bundles the pair of gloves together, “I really am sorry for interrupting your evening out, detective. But I fear for the safety of the city.”

She exchanges a glance with Muriel, and then tells the Countess, “Please, take a seat and if you would excuse us for just one moment…”

“Of course.” 

She beckons Muriel to follow her into the back room, where she lowers her voice, “I am so, so sorry about this, but this is the first potential client we’ve had in weeks. I can meet you at the Raven whenever we finish this, or we, um...we can take a raincheck on it?”

“We can wait.” He checks his wristwatch, “I’ve still got a half hour before my shift starts…” He pauses, waiting for her to understand that she had time to finish her business, “...I, ah, I still owe you that dance, anyway.”

She smiles, looking more genuine than she had all night, and rests a hand on his forearm, “I’ll wrap this up as soon as possible, then we can get outta here.” Then, she tacks on, “Thanks, Muriel.” She’s back in the front room before he has a chance to say ‘you’re welcome’.

They’re already talking when Muriel steps back into the front room, arms crossed over his chest. The Countess explains, “I have reason to suspect that my husband was murdered, of course, considering. I’ve turned everywhere else, and no one cares enough to find the killer, no matter how insufferable of a man he was.” She rubs her forehead, “Or, supposedly. I was involved in an accident shortly after his murder, you see. I don’t remember my time in Vesuvia.”

She furrows her brow, scribbling notes on a pad, “Do you think this accident might have been correlated to your husband’s murder?”

“I don’t think so, no.” Nadia’s eyes shift from Muriel to her, “I’m going to leave you my address. I’ve intruded long enough. Please, detective, visit me tomorrow, and I...I might be more clear-headed then.”

“One last question, Miss Satrinava.” Nadia certainly looks pleased at that, and scribbles an address on a scrap of paper as she continues, “Why do you suspect that your husband was murdered?”

Nadia halts in her writing for just a moment, “Well, from what I’ve heard...he was certainly a man with many enemies, and the police never released to cause of the fire...I suppose it makes sense.”

She holds her hand out to shake Nadia’s, “I look forward to meeting with you tomorrow, Miss Satrinava.”

“Likewise, detective.”


	3. Morality

Muriel lights a cigarette as soon as she’s locked the front door, turning the neon lights off as she hugs herself, arms wrapped around her torso and the heavy winter coat that covers her. She eyes the cigarette a moment, taking her bottom lip between her teeth, but says nothing, following him as they make their way down the street. 

The only light is that of the street lamps and the soft glow of the cigarette, and he has half a mind to offer what’s left of it to her. 

The half of his mind screaming at him to fork it over wins, and he holds the little burning stick to her. She eyes it, a bemused little smirk on her lips, before accepting the half smoked cigarette, “Thanks.”

He hesitates, unsure of what he ought to say, so he settles on a late, “Don’t mention it.”

She eyes him, obviously still thinking about what had just happened in her office, though he was certain she was trying to read his mind; tear him apart, bit by bit and understand just what the hell he was. 

“I haven’t been out in...forever.” She smiles, a million miles away, “Thanks for letting me tag along.”

He’s blushing a thousand shades of red, he’s certain and lights himself another cigarette so he can busy his hands. Instead of saying anything smooth or suave or...charming, like the guys in the pictures, he says, “You don’t have to keep thanking me for everything.”

She rolls her eyes, sucking on the end of the cigarette with renewed vigor, “You sound like Asra.” He thinks of saying something along the lines of how they were raised together, but she continues, “I think that all the good people in this world deserve to be thanked for the good things they do.”

Immediately, he says, “I’m not a good guy.”

She arches a brow, challenging him, obviously not believing him in the slightest, “Really? You’ve given me no evidence to believe anything else.” 

“You don’t exactly know me.”

She stops in the middle of the sidewalk, holding her arms out like she was the Christ, and says, “Okay. Prove me wrong.”

He tries not to smile, watching the way her eyes light up while she challenges him, “I’m gonna be late for work.”

She grins, smug as he’d ever seen any one person, “I don’t know if I believe in good and bad people, but I do think people are more inclined to one or the other.”

“And what makes you think I’m any good?”

She shrugs, “Asra trusts you, and you took me out to dance when I complained about missing it. So…” She tosses the butt of her cigarette into a puddle on the side of the road, “I think you’re a good person, and you deserve to be thanked.”

Muriel pouts, not willing to argue with her and not willing to believe that he was a good person, especially with the things he’s done. He pushes his hands into his pockets, letting the cigarette dangle from his lips, and he considers the idea that morality could really be so black and white. 

It was unlikely, and the idea depresses him anyway. 

They walk in awkward, companionable silence for a long minute, Muriel doing his best to come up with something to say to break the pause in conversation. He finishes his cigarette, considering lighting up another one right away, but thinks better of it. 

“Tell me something about yourself, Muriel.” She prompts, wringing her hands together before explaining, “We’ve known each other for years, and I hardly know anything about you.”

He hesitates, and nearly refuses her completely. Instead, he mutters, “...like what?”

“Like…” She stretches the word far longer than she needed to, “what do you like to do in your spare time?”

Muriel furrows his brow, as if he genuinely didn’t know what he liked to do when he wasn’t working or sleeping, and realizes that that’s the extent of the things he does. “I have a dog.” He offers, hoping that that might satiate her questions for now, rather than her pressing him for more about him. 

She is a detective, after all, and he should have known that as soon as he gave her an inch, she’d try to take a mile, “Really? So you like animals?” He can’t tell if she’s genuinely trying to be nice or if she’s picking his brain apart. 

He shrugs, “Yeah.”

She bites her lip, and then asks, “Do you have a favorite flower?” She must realize that it’s an otherwise outlandish question and adds, “Asra told me you like to preserve them.”

He wonders just how much Asra’s told her about him, but by way of answering, he pulls out a small, pressed flower from his back pocket, and she pauses, looking it over with a soft smile, “Forget-me-nots.” He explains, feeling a little ridiculous for carrying the damn thing around and showing her. 

She smiles, wide and bright and honest, and says, “It’s beautiful.”

He shoves it back in his pocket, embarrassment flushing across his face, and he shrugs, “It’s okay.”

She pauses again, racking her brain for another question, before settling on, “Is there anything you want to know about me?”

He asks the first question that comes to mind, “Where are you from?”

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

“Oh, I don’t actually remember that. I get...flashes, you know? Little memories.” She shrugs, “Asra tried to tell me a couple of times, but whenever I start remembering things, I get these migraines that just…” She shakes her head and rolls her eyes, “kill me.”

Muriel swallows, hard enough for his Adam’s apple to bob, and he feels shitty for asking something about the one touchy thing, bringing up the worst possible subject he could have gone for. She doesn’t look offended, surprisingly, but that does little to quell the shame bubbling in Muriel’s chest. He feels like shit, like he ought to apologize, but the words turn to ash on his tongue, unsure of how she’d feel about that.

“What do you think of the whole...Nadia thing?” She asks, blessedly changing the subject. It’s something neither of them were too keen on brooching, but he found it favorable to the hole he’d dug himself in. 

“I think it’s a case.” He shrugs, “It’s from a mob wife. You’ll be paid handsomely.” It was a no-brainer, considering the hole that she and Asra found themselves in, but the implications of the law gave her pause, for good reason. 

They spend the rest of the walk in silence, and Muriel is thankful for that. 

The Rowdy Raven lives up to its name, at least in the idea of being rowdy. It was loud, far more than Muriel would ever find himself comfortable with, but he had to afford food somehow, and working at this dump was the safest bet. 

He isn’t surprised to see Dr. Devorak there as he slips in the back door, the detective only a step and a half behind him, and he sighs, knowing he’d have to kick him out within the hour if he got too, well, rowdy. 

“What time do you get off?”

He realizes for the first time that she came with him with the intent of staying for the rest of the night. It was nine o’clock now, and he wouldn’t get off until five, and given the big day she had tomorrow, she needed to get some semblance of rest. 

Fuck, he dug himself into a hole. 

“Not until five.” He swears internally, wondering how he could have forgotten that she needed an escort home, and that he wouldn’t be there to protect her from Vesuvia, “But I’ll find someone to walk you home before then.” He promises, trying to think of someone, anyone who he knew well enough to bring her back to the office.

He’s not happy with who he comes up with, but he figures he has no other option. 

She arches a brow, challenging him again, “You think I need someone to walk me home?”

It’s late, and he’s definitely not in the mood to argue with her over the fact that Vesuvia would chew her up and spit her back out, so all he does is hand her a few crumpled bills from his pocket and says, “Enjoy yourself. I’ll send someone soon.”

He’s gone before she can protest or complain, clocking in and taking his post by the front door, taking over for Brudmila, and she’s left inside, money in hand. Ultimately, she decides that the best idea is to make her way for the bar. Muriel gave her money, for some reason, and she figures she ought to enjoy herself tonight before whatever tomorrow was going to bring her. 

“Can I have a mai tai, please?” She orders, feeling small, but she was determined to have a good time. 

The bartender nods at her, accepting her money, and as she waits for her drink, she hears, “Well, well, well, what have we here?” She would have rolled her eyes, would have scoffed and ignored the man, had she not known exactly who the owner of the poorly masked Russian accent was. 

Julian tries - he really does - to hide the fact that he wasn’t from the States, but despite of his many, many talents, hiding his native dialect was not one of them. 

“How are the headaches, detective?” Julian asks, leaning against the bar. 

She shrugs, smiling at her friend, “Tolerable. How’s work?”

“Steady.” Julian waves the bartender over and orders a Salty Bitter, “And yourself? How’s work?”

She thanks the bartender for their drinks and takes a long, well deserved drink from the mai tai, eyes widening reflexively, “Nonexistent. No one seems to be looking for anyone anymore.”

Julian scoffs, “No one knows where to look for their missing people.” Julian nudges her with his elbow, “You need to get out of that hole in the wall and into an actual job.”

She rolls her eyes, “Right, because those old geezers are gonna hire me.” She waves at herself harshly, “The best I’d get is to be a goddamn receptionist.”

Julian shrugs, “It’s actual work, though.”

He had a point. 

She sighs, “I didn’t come here tonight to depress myself.”

He waggles his eyebrows, “You came with talk, dark, and broody, hm?”

“And I didn’t come to talk about him.” She cuts him off sharply, doing her best not to smile, “Dance with me, doctor?”

“Gladly.”

Muriel has to break up a fight between two assholes within the first half hour of his shift, but it doesn’t stop him from keeping tabs on her, making sure that she’s alright. He doesn’t want to over stept, and certainly doesn’t want to send her home with Doctor Devorak, considering how drunk he knew the doctor was bound to get. 

When he sees them dancing, he notices just how good they look together. 

He tries to focus on his work.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @collective-laugh! Thank you so much for reading, and don't be afraid to hit that kudo button and drop me a comment! Thanks!


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